Dawn found Liora in the healer's hut, the hearth throwing a cautious warmth across the blankets. She could move now, small liberties at first. A turn of the head, the lift of a hand. Nyssa hovered, steady and efficient, tending the dressings with the business of saving what could be saved. The other women worked in practiced silence. For Liora, even breath felt like a small reclamation.
She swallowed broth and let Nyssa fuss. The healer's hands were precise, the small clucks and motions offering an apology in work. In the corner lay Liora's cloak, dark, trimmed with silver braid folded like a promise. It sat there while the world made repairs, an emblem of what had been taken.
